Memorias Mortuorum: Recollections of the Dead
by mandassina
Summary: When I think of how Trip handled things in "Unexpected" and "Dawn," I believe the events of "Similitude" would have been very upsetting to him. I also thought it might be interesting if he somehow retained some of Sim's memories. T for a few naughty words.
1. The Persistence of Memory

Disclaimer:These characters are not mine. No profit is being made from this work.

 _ **Memorias Mortuorum  
**_ _ **Recollections of the Dead**_

 **Chapter One  
** **The Persistence of Memory**

 _The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.  
_ _Marcus Tullius Cicero_ _  
_

It was late evening, a little after eleven p.m. ship's time, and Jonathan Archer was just finishing his captain's log when the door chimed. He added his signature and date, saved the log and closed the program, and was taking in a breath to call out _Come in_ when the door chimed again. He smirked and shrugged. Whoever was out there was feeling impatient.

"Come in!" he said, and stood to greet his visitor.

When Commander Tucker came boiling into the room before the door was fully open, looking like a rotating thundercloud about to start pelting hailstones, Porthos yipped a greeting. Before he got a good look at his friend, Archer grinned and said in his most inviting tone, "Trip! I was hoping…"

When the commander grabbed him by the front of his uniform and propelled him across the room, past the foot of the bed, and into the bulkhead next to the bathroom door with bruising force, Archer wisely shut up. Porthos retreated to his bed and whined.

" _Never_ again, Jon!" Trip growled, his face so close Archer couldn't make his eyes focus on his friend's blue ones. "You got that?" the engineer snarled, occasionally thumping him against the bulkhead to emphasize his words. "No one _ever_ dies for me again! Not _ever_!"

Archer was perhaps more relieved and less shocked than he should have been by the manhandling. He'd been expecting this outburst since he'd told Trip about Sim, the clone whose creation he'd ordered to save his chief engineer's life. He'd been anticipating it after Sim's funeral, three days ago, and frankly, he was a little surprised it had taken this long. However, he had not, to his dismay, been remotely prepared for the intensity of his best friend's anger. When the last thump caused his head to snap back and slam against the bulkhead with a force that made lights dance across his vision, he realized that he couldn't let Tornado Trip blow himself out as he'd been planning.

As Porthos alternately growled and whined to see his second favorite human slamming his favorite human against the bulkhead, Jon said quietly, "You're hurting me."

He knew that was all it would take, and a moment later, he felt the change before he could see it. The dangerous storm abated slightly, and his friend, gentle, kind, compassionate Trip, relaxed a bit. Another second and he let go of the front of Archer's uniform as if it had burned him, smoothed the fabric, patted him gently on his chest, just over his heart, stepped back out of his personal space, hung his head, and apologized.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said tersely. He was still in a towering rage, though, and the minor injury was clearly the _only_ thing for which he was apologizing.

Porthos gave a relieved little whimper, circled three times, and lay down on his bed, but continued to watch the two men vigilantly.

Archer nodded, waving the apology off and then gesturing to the foot of his own bed. "It's all right," he assured Trip. "Have a seat."

"Uh-uh," Trip said, shaking his head sharply, eyes still fixed on the floor. "I sit down, an' I'm liable to blow."

Archer frowned, but nodded. He knew his friend had a temper, and if Trip was agitated enough to recognize his potential for losing it, Archer wasn't about to argue. Still, he wanted to find a way to stabilize the atmosphere. "Do you mind if _I_ sit?"

Trip scowled thoughtfully at the easy chair closest to him, and finally said. "I don't know. I might want to whump on you some more."

Any other time, Archer might have chuckled at the threat, but that thundercloud was still circulating, and he knew if he wasn't careful, Tornado Trip could lash out again and do some serious damage.

"Okay, then, I guess we'll both stand," he said, and let his hands hang loosely at his sides, keeping still and trying to look as non-confrontational as possible as Trip paced the few feet from the foot of the bed to the entryway, muttering under his breath. Jon waited what he thought might be a full three minutes before he said, "Trip, I…"

"No!" the agitated man interrupted, snapping around to glare at Archer. The crackling anger elicited a whimper from Porthos. "After the funeral, six people told me if I needed to talk about it, they were willin' to listen: You, Malcolm, T'Pol, Hoshi, Phlox, an' Cutler. Well, I'm ready to talk, that means you don't."

"All right," Archer nodded, sidling toward his desk, leaning on the edge, fairly confident he was safe for now. "I'm listening."

Trip paced for another minute or more before he stopped abruptly, hit Archer with a stricken look, and nearly sobbed, "He's in my _head_ , Jon!"

The only thing Archer could offer was, "Phlox said that wouldn't happen."

"Well, Phlox was wrong!" Trip insisted, and resumed his pacing. "I know what he thought, how he felt. I have his memories! Hell, Jon, I have memories of _him_ as a kid, rememberin' _my_ childhood memories, an' wonderin' how he could remember a life he hadn't lived in a place he'd never seen with people he'd never met! Sometimes, when I think about him, the things he did, _his_ memories, there's this sort of echo in my mind. I'll be thinkin' _him_ an' _he_ , an' he's there in my head sayin' _me_ an' _I._

"An' he was scared, Jon! He was _sooo_ _scared_ all the time. At first, it was because he thought he was crazy. He couldn't understand how he could have memories for two different people's lives in his head an' both of 'em be his. An' he was confused! He couldn't understand how his parents, _my_ parents, could send him out here all alone, or why they would. He was old enough to understand that he was _just_ a kid an' had _no business_ bein' here! Then, once you explained who an' what he was, an' why he was here, he was afraid of the operation, an' afraid of growin' old an' dyin' in a week's time. Now I have all those memories, of a life _I_ never lived, an' I have memories of _rememberin'_ a life I never lived on top of that, but they're really _my_ memories that _he_ was recallin'. It's confusin' as hell an' seriously weird, Jon! Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I'm not sure if I'm gonna see me, or _him_ , an' I'm not sure how to handle that!"

Archer was pretty sure the waver in Trip's voice wasn't just breathlessness from the long rant, so he gave his friend a minute to compose himself. When Trip didn't say anything more for a long while, the storm seemed to have dissipated. Finally, Archer asked, "Are you saying you're worried about going crazy?"

Trip scoffed. "Goin'?" When Archer gave him an anxious look, he waved it off. "Relax, I have a feelin' it's just gonna take some gettin' used to, if he doesn't fade out completely after bit. I sure don't think I'm likely to forget who _I_ am," he said, "an' even if I do, I doubt I'll forget how to handle the engines. He was a hell of an engineer."

Trip gave him a tentative smile, and Archer returned it. "I'd noticed." As Trip sank down on the foot of his bed, Archer turned his desk chair around and sat facing him. Trip looked down at his hands. "So, what is it you need, Trip?"

For a minute or two, Trip just sat quietly, looking at his hands, and Archer just sat with him. The commander wasn't the type to let a silence stretch any longer than necessary, so he was more than likely really thinking about what he needed and what his captain and his friend could do to help him. Finally, he sighed gustily.

"I need to get some things off my chest, Jon," he said seriously. "Both as an engineer to his cap'n, an' as me to you, friend to friend."

"Okay," Jon nodded agreeably, refraining from asking if that wasn't what he'd just done. "I'm listening."

"I'm warnin' ya, some of the things I gotta say to you are gonna sound insubordinate," Trip cautioned, still staring at his hands. "An' some of 'em are gonna be mean, an' just downright hurtful, but it's what I think an' it's how I feel an' I need you to hear me. 'Cause if I don't get it outta my system, one of these days I'm apt to just…bust you in the mouth or somethin'!"

"I knew you'd be upset with me," Archer encouraged him.

"Upset?" Trip snorted. "Jon, I'm so mad I can hardly stand to look at you," he growled, "an' I'm pretty sure that's comin' from me at _least_ as much as it is from _him._ "

Archer could hear the unshed tears choking his friend's voice. Trip could get agitated, irritated, annoyed, exasperated, cross, vexed, peeved, and pissed off, and he handled it all right, not necessarily tactfully, but acceptably. He'd bark a few loud words at the source of his displeasure, maybe growl at everyone for a day or two, then confront the problem, resolve it, apologize for any hurt feelings he may have caused, and be his normal sunny self again. But Trip didn't do anger very well, not the soul deep, burning anger that came from being hurt by someone who was supposed to look out for him. That kind of anger _hurt_ Trip. Archer had once thought it was because Trip loved people too much, but after knowing him for more than a decade now and discovering the depths of the man's heart, he knew that wasn't possible.

Archer sighed, this was worse than he expected, but Trip had been quiet for a minute now, and Jon wasn't really sure if he was waiting for a response or what. "I didn't really see where I had much choice…" he tried.

"Save it," Trip cut him off, sounding deceptively calm. "I read your report, how you deliberated about creatin' him, how you justified it. I can't judge you on that, Jon. I don't know what I'd have done if our positions had been reversed. All I'm sure about is that…Well, I must believe in God 'cause I thank him a hundred times a day that it wasn't me makin' those decisions."

"Thank you for understanding that it wasn't easy for me," Archer said.

"None of this is about you, Jon," Trip rumbled softly, still not looking at him. "This is about the…abominable thing you did to me, to him _for_ me. You need to understand, the only reason I'm here now, talkin' to you 'stead of waitin' my chance to jump you an' pound the stuffin' outta you in some vacant compartment or the dark end of some empty corridor, is that, as long as I've known you, you've always tried to do the right thing. I don't know if you were just selfish for once in your life, or if you made the wrong choice, or if maybe there was no good choice, but what you did to me, Jon…I feel…dirty! Like I've been violated, an' I feel like I did somethin'…criminal, somethin' heinous, somethin'…somethin' unforgiveable, an' all I did was survive! Jon, I wish I could somehow crawl outta my own skin an' just walk away from myself!"

Trip stopped a moment to steady his breathing and wipe his eyes with the backs of his hands. Then he said, "We were friends for a long time, Jon."

Archer's eyebrows shot up. " _Were_?" Past tense.

Trip shrugged. "I always trusted you, Jon. Now, I don't. Least not the way I used to. I don't know if that's me or him talkin', an' I don't know what it means for our friendship. Right now, I'm _angry_ with you, an' I'm _hurt_ , an' I don't know if I'm ever gonna get past that."

The two men sat in silence for a long while. Archer hadn't expected this. He'd been prepared for Trip to be upset, confused, freaked out, maybe even feeling a little guilty that he was living and Sim was not. But never had he considered that his friend, his _best_ friend, would be so angry he might lose him. He felt himself going hot and then cold all over. His eyes would start to burn and he'd close them until the sensation went away. Then his chest would get tight and his throat would hurt and he'd force himself to take long, deep breaths until that went away. Then his eyes would start to burn again. It didn't help any that Trip, who always had worn his heart on his sleeve, made no bones about wiping his eyes, getting up to grab a tissue from the box on the shelf above Jon's bed to blow his nose, and pounding his fist on his thigh with bruising force when some thought or memory made him particularly angry.

"You know," Trip said quietly after a while, "when he was little, he looked up to you. He remembered my mom an' dad as his parents, which confused an' hurt him 'cause he had no idea why they'd sent him away, an' he loved Phlox 'cause he was the one raisin' him here. So, you might not have been a father figure to him, exactly, maybe a role model, almost a hero. You were what he aspired to be."

Trip grabbed another tissue, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. "Then, when he got older, biologically a teen ager, I guess, he loved you like a big brother, Jon. He loved you like _I_ do."

Archer looked up sharply at that. He loved you like I _do._ Present tense.

Trip shrugged again, tapped his temple and said, "Everything's a jumble up here, Jon. Part of me doesn't even want to have to ever look at you again, an' part of me misses you already. An' the hell of it is, I don't know which part is me an' which part is him, 'cause it feels like we're all mixed together.

"That day when you took him to the cargo bay to fly your model, when you told him about the operation an'…introduced him to me, he was scared, but he trusted you. An' when I say he trusted you, I mean that was all him. He didn't have my memories of you yet. He didn't know how much I believed in you."

 _Believed_ past tense.

"Then, when you told him he wouldn't survive the operation…" Suddenly overcome, Trip choked on a sob. "God, Jon! He felt _so betrayed_." Just as quickly, he swung from despair to rage. _"What gave you the right?_ " he thundered, and Porthos stood up on his cushion and barked at him, just the once. "You killed him, Jon! You an' Phlox created him an' then _killed_ him, an' for what? For me? I read that part of your report, too. The little T-chart you made of pros an' cons. An' y'know, that's when I realized, you're not the man I thought you were anymore. The Jonathan Archer I called my friend would have needed only one entry in the _cons_ list to make his decision. Two words: It's murder! _What the_ _hell were you thinkin'?_ "

Archer bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood. He'd been thinking that _Enterprise_ couldn't survive the expanse without her chief engineer, but Trip had already told him, this wasn't about him. He knew it wasn't about _Enterprise,_ either. It was about Trip, and the way he saw the world, how he threw kindness around like confetti and couldn't hold onto a grudge and a hyperspanner at the same time. It was about the Xyrillian infant that he carried inside him until he could return her to her people when he would have been perfectly within his rights to have terminated the pregnancy, removing her as if she were nothing more than a parasite. It was about trying to climb into the airlock on Shuttlepod One to give Malcolm a better chance to survive. It was about refusing to kill Zho'Kaan, and then staying with him, at great danger to himself, until the Arkonian shuttle could bring them both home. It was about teaching the cogenitor to read, and the risk he took helping Jon and A.G. steal the NX-Beta so they could save Henry Archer's dream from being squelched by the Vulcans. And maybe it was about saving some vestige of their friendship.

It was definitely _not_ about Jon justifying his decision. To a man like Trip, who would carry an alien fetus, to term, if necessary, Jon was sure, or endanger his own life just to keep a dying alien who could not be beamed to safety company on a roasting planet, Jon's decision to trade one sentient life for another was unjustifiable.

It wasn't about an apology, either. Trip was too angry right now to hear how sorry Jon was. To apologize now would force Trip to either reject the apology, or accept it against his will. Either way, it would be the end of their friendship. Even when it came time for him to beg Trip's forgiveness, it wouldn't help that Jon could only sincerely say he was sorry Trip was hurting. If that wasn't enough, their friendship would be over anyway. He knew he couldn't say he hadn't known how Trip would feel, or that he wouldn't have done it if he had known, or that he would never do anything like it again. They'd both know he was lying on all counts, and Trip would despise him all the more for being a hypocrite.

This was about Jonathan Archer sitting quietly and taking whatever abuse his best friend chose to rain down on him, because the thing he had done was completely anathema to everything – kindness, compassion, love, _humanity_ – everything that made Charles Tucker, III, the best friend he'd ever had and the best man he'd ever known.

"Jon?" Trip's voice was quiet, calm, and desolate. He did not continue until Archer met his gaze, and when Jon looked up, Trip's face was devoid of all expression and his eyes were dry. "I really did try to understand. I want you to know that. I read your reports. An' Phlox's. An' a log I found in my quarters that he…that Sim kept. I doubt I'll ever show it to you, but in the end…in the end, he understood, probably better'n me, that it was nothin' personal an' you never meant to hurt him. He wrote that it seemed to be the only way you could get what you thought you needed to complete this mission, an' that you'd do 'whatever it takes' to make it happen. An' he decided he didn't want to make you a murderer, 'cause he thought you were a good man."

Jon inhaled sharply. Trip gave the ghost of a smile that held no humor and said, "Yeah, he remembered that night we sat in the mess hall drinkin', right before Duras attacked, an' you an' I agreed we'd do whatever it takes to stop the Xindi. An' _I_ remember the conversation _y'all_ had in my quarters the night before…the surgery. Ultimately, I think he decided you didn't need his forgiveness because you didn't want to hurt him, you just felt you had no choice."

"Thank you for telling me that," Jon said.

Trip shrugged. "I figured you had a right to know."

"Wh-what about you?" Jon dared to ask, and regretted it the moment Trip looked at him.

"Way too soon to ask that, Jon," he said, and fixated him with that narrow-eyed glare that reminded him how very mean and malicious the engineer could be when he was hurt. "See, no matter how you slice it, how you try to dress it up in logic or argue that you had no other option, the fact remains that you made a one-to-one comparison an' decided my life was more valuable than his. Then you killed him so I could live. I am alive because my best friend made a conscious an' deliberate decision to kill an innocent, sentient bein'.

"I've gotta figure out how the hell I'm gonna live with _that_ before I can even be bothered to think about how I'm gonna…live with you."

Without even a word of goodbye or goodnight, Trip got up and left.

In the emptiness of his leaving, Jon felt as if the storm had blown away everything that mattered.

 _ **To be continued…**  
_ _Reviews feed the Muse._


	2. The Necessity of Evil

_**Memorias Mortuorum**_

 _ **Recollections of the Dead**_

 **Chapter Two**

 **The Necessity of Evil**

 _A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. Proverbs 17:17 (KJV)_

Malcolm popped into the shadowy mess hall at quarter past midnight and asked the drinks dispenser for a cup of chamomile tea with honey. It was usually the perfect thing to settle him before bed. He'd been working double shifts for the past week, but tomorrow was his official day off, and he had already decided to indulge himself with a lie-in until seven before he got up and went to the armory to catch up on some work.

"Commander! It's good to see you," he called as he turned, tea in hand, and glanced about for a table under a light. At this hour of the evening, after Gamma Shift had been fed and before Alpha Shift came looking for breakfast, the lights were usually dimmed to conserve energy. "How are you feeling?"

"Malcolm, please don't play games with me," Trip grumbled sitting up in his seat in a shadowy corner of the mess hall. "I'm still recoverin' from brain surgery an' in no condition to contend with you. I'll come along peacefully. Are you takin' me to the brig or are you just gonna confine me to my quarters?"

Malcolm frowned deeply, and turned to look at the commander, who was still very much in the shadows. He turned to the environmental control panel on the wall and increased the light by ten percent before approaching his friend, who was positively glowering at a slice of key lime pie with only the tip cut off.

"What in the world would make you say such a thing?"

"I was sittin' alone, in the dark. I didn't move or make a sound. You didn't look at me or even look for me, yet you knew I was here," Trip explained. "You're good, but even you ain't that good, Mal. You located me with the internal sensors, an' I figure the only reason you'd do that would be if the cap'n ordered it."

"For a man still recovering from brain surgery, you worked all that out very quickly," Malcolm muttered. Granted, he wasn't trying all that hard to be surreptitious, but sometimes the commander could put two and two together faster than any tactician he'd ever known. If he wasn't such an amazing engineer as well, Malcolm would have said any assignment other than security would have been a waste of a brilliant tactical mind. "I'll admit it, the cup of tea was just a ruse. The captain actually woke me about ten minutes ago, but why would you think I'm here to take you into custody?"

Now it was Trip's turn to frown, and on his already glum countenance, it was a pitiful expression. "Maybe 'cause I bounced his skull off the bulkhead three or four times about an hour ago?" he confessed.

Malcolm's eyes widened in surprise briefly and he blinked a couple of times. "Well, considering the captain didn't see fit to mention any kind of assault when he contacted me, I don't think there's any reason to confine you. And he didn't actually order me to look in on you, either, by the way. He _asked_ me. He was rather cryptic about it, though, as if he didn't want to…betray a confidence, I'd say."

"What did he tell you?" Trip demanded anxiously.

"Not much," Malcolm admitted. "Which had a lot to do with why I decided to come find you right away. Considering how long the two of you have known each other, the idea that he would consult _me_ when he was concerned about you, is extraordinary. So I was quite worried when he said you were upset, needing a friend, and probably shouldn't be alone right now; but he was the last person you would want hanging around."

"He's right about that," Trip growled.

Malcolm couldn't quite squelch the look of dismay that pushed its way onto his face, but decided that if Trip had just come from assaulting the captain and the captain had chosen to overlook it, he probably shouldn't be poking a stick at that particular hornets' nest. Surprisingly, Trip hadn't tried to push him away, yet.

"Well, now that we've established the captain is _persona non grata_ , and since we both know you probably don't want to start counselling with Phlox, talk to _me_. How _are_ you feeling?"

"My head still hurts," Trip admitted. "Not real bad, just, a dull ache. Phlox gave me somethin' to take for it. I just…haven't bothered."

"Well, so long as you don't let it go until it actually makes you sick, I don't suppose it's a problem," Malcolm considered. "Somehow, I don't think that's the reason the captain asked me to keep you company for a little while."

Trip smirked bitterly. "No," he agreed. "Probably not."

Malcolm gave an amused little huff, barely more than a loud breath. Getting nothing further, he decided not to press the issue. Instead he sat down, and Trip, finally realizing he was not about to be hauled away in irons, slouched back into the darkness across from him. Malcolm wasn't going to let his friend go without making sure he was…well, as all right as he could be under the circumstances, but he didn't think nagging would accomplish anything. He'd asked twice how Trip was doing and got no answer, so he sat and quietly sipped his tea. The fact that he _still_ hadn't been asked to leave was a concern. It was as clear a sign as any that his friend was in trouble and knew it.

Trip sighed, and picked up his fork. He used it to slice another bite off the end of his piece of pie, but instead of eating it, he turned the fork in his grip and smashed the bite flat. From his slouched position, the pie was nearly at arm's length, so it gave the impression that he was dissecting a particularly disgusting life form. Then he stabbed the fork into the pie with perhaps a little more force than necessary, and left it standing straight up.

"Y'know how when I have a really bad day, I like to come down here before bedtime an' see if I can find a piece of pecan pie?" he finally began.  
Malcolm nodded. The fact was, since they'd confirmed Elizabeth's death in the Xindi attack, Chef always kept a supply of the sticky, sweet desert in stasis, and made sure to put a few slices out in the evening when Trip was likely to be prowling about the ship. More than once, Malcolm had seen a crew member reach for a slice, and, realizing it was the last one, leave it in the case for Trip to find later.

"I don't know. For some reason, just the taste of it, that gooey fillin' an' the toasted pecans, can make anythin' all right, at least for a little while. I only have to take one bite, an' I feel like I'm ten years old, back in my mama's kitchen, probably gettin' the devil for spoilin' my dinner."

Malcolm grinned. He could easily picture a ten-year-old Trip, trying to look innocent as he was caught red-handed cutting into the dessert an hour before mealtime. Somehow, he doubted even the engineer's mother could scold him successfully when he gave her his puppy-dog eyes.

"It's comfort food," Malcolm suggested. "I like peanut butter with my pancakes because they remind me of spending the night with my Granny and Grandad. They were my mother's parents, and a lot more fun than the Reed side of the family."

"Yep," Trip agreed nodding his head. "It's exactly like that. It takes me back to when life was so much simpler, an' I feel like I can finally _breathe_ again."

"But tonight, you didn't take the pecan pie," Malcolm noted.

"No, I did not!" Trip confirmed almost vehemently. "There's some over there, but for some fuckin' reason, tonight, after assaultin' the cap'n in his quarters for savin' my life, I took a damned toxic-yellow slice of key lime pie instead!"

Malcolm pursed his lips and wondered if he should tell Trip key lime pie was Sim's favorite dessert.

Trip folded his hand into a loose fist just beside the edge of the plate, then flicked his fingers out suddenly, shooting the plate into the middle of the table. Withdrawing again, he slouched back into the shadows, slumped in his chair with his hands folded over his middle.

"I think you should know, Malcolm, when he became mature enough to have adult relationships, Sim considered you his best friend."

"What a lovely thing to say," Malcolm remarked with a small smile. "Thank you for sharing…" As he finished his thought, another one struck him with such force he trailed off for a fraction of a second. "…that with me. _How_ do you know?"

Trip just gave him a smile that held no mirth and tapped two fingers to his temple.

"You have his memories?" Malcolm breathed.

Trip nodded.

"How many of them?" Malcolm asked.

"Damn near all, far as I can tell," Trip said.

"Bloody hell!" Malcolm gasped.

"Yep."

"Are you all right, mate?"

Trip snorted crudely. "Hell, no!"

Neither man spoke for a few minutes. Malcolm sipped his cooling tea. Trip pulled the slice of key lime pie towards him and mutilated it some more.

"It's not the memories that are tough, actually," Trip finally said as he stabbed the pie well beyond death. "It's the emotions. Especially the fear, the anger, an' the…I dunno, the feelin' of bein' _used_." Now Trip was using the fork to fold the pie together, scooping up the pulverized mess at the edge and piling it in the middle, over and over, making it look like a mass of something that had had already been eaten and violently rejected.

"I imagine those feelings would be quite natural for anyone who was informed at puberty that the sole reason for his existence was to donate tissue to save another person's life," Malcolm observed, realizing he'd found the heart of the matter when Trip stifled something that might have been a sob and mashed the lump of sticky stuff violently with his fork.

After several minutes of silence, Trip said, "Actually, I think that's why he liked you so well."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you have a way of acknowledgin' what he was an' givin' him the chance to talk about it without makin' him feel like he was just a spare tire or somethin', " Trip explained. "Like that day in here when you asked him about havin' my memories. No pussyfootin' around, you just asked him what you wanted to know."

"I was curious," Malcolm said. "Because he'd told me key lime pie was his favorite dessert."

"I know," Trip told him. "An' you, bein' my best friend, know it's not mine."

Malcolm glanced up sharply and said, "I thought the captain was your best friend."

Trip looked stricken. The words had just come out. There was no denying he meant them, but… "You know, until right this very minute, I did, too."

"Trip, it's not that it isn't an honor, but if you're just angry with the captain…"

"No!" Trip said vehemently, "It has nothin' to do with that. I mean, yeah, I'm mad at him. I'm pissed as hell, but I think he stopped bein' my best friend a long time ago. Probably sometime before that damned repair station tried to turn Travis into part of its hard drive."

"That long ago?" Malcolm wondered. "I had no idea."

"Neither did I, 'til just a minute ago," Trip admitted. He picked up the plate with the disgusting glob of goo and crumbs and set it aside on another table where they didn't have to look at it. Then he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, hands folded loosely out in front of him. "It didn't have anythin' to do with a disagreement or a fallin' out or anythin' like that, it's just…things changed. I think I'm still _his_ best friend, if only 'cause I've known him longer than anybody on the ship; but he _can't_ be mine anymore, 'cause he can't do a lot of the things we used to do together. Like snoopin' around that repair station! That's the kinda trouble Jon an' I used to get into all the time, but he's not just Jon anymore, hasn't been for more'n two years. He's Cap'n Archer, an' the cap'n can't be my partner in crime. It's his job now to be the one to give me _hell_ when I get into that kinda trouble."

"You know, I heard the story about him and the late Commander Robinson stealing the NX-Beta," Malcolm said. "I don't suppose you were part of those shenanigans?"

"Who the hell d'you think was ground control?" Trip grinned briefly, then sobered. "Time was, he'd have been the one to try to get me to talk about Lizzie, too, but bein' the cap'n, I guess he can't get that close anymore."

Malcolm swallowed hard in a dry throat, then took another sip of tea. Speaking softly because he didn't quite trust his voice, he said, "I'm sorry I'm no Jonathan Archer, Trip. I – I don't know what to say, what to do, how to help…"

"Ah, hell, Malcolm, you helped!" Trip assured him. "I – I know I hurt you, the way I snapped at you that day in the corridor, an' I know I should have said somethin' long before now, but…I'm sorry. You don't know how much it helped just to know that you were still my friend the next day." His voice trailed off almost to a whisper, and he swiped a sleeve across his eyes. "I couldn't have lost anybody else right then."

"There's no danger of that, Trip," Malcolm assured him, "at least not as long as I have anything to say about it."

"Problem is, out here, you _don't_ have anythin' to say about it," Trip observed. "Not you, not me…not Sim."

Trip fell silent for a long minute. Malcolm focused mostly on his tea, but through stolen glances saw his friend struggling with some powerful emotions as he fought to find the words to shape his next thoughts.

"I think…" Trip cleared his throat when the words came out raspy. "I think that's how I know for sure Jon's not my best friend anymore," he finally managed to say around the sob that threatened to choke him. "How could he… _not know_ …that was somethin' I'd never want?"

"He knew, Trip," Malcolm said softly, "but he didn't feel as if he had a choice."

"Yeah? Well, he doesn't get a choice next time, either!" Trip's voice was suddenly sharp and hard with anger. "If I can't speak for myself, I expect you to speak for me, an' I'm gonna tell Phlox an' Hoshi an' Travis an' T'Pol an' a couple of my engineers the same damned thin' I just told Jonny. _Nobody_ else dies for me!" he insisted, thumping his fist on the table hard enough to make the spoon in Malcolm's tea tinkle against the porcelain cup. "Not _ever_ again! Not if there's time to make a decision. I don't care if it's Porthos or Phlox's damned bat! I don't want to live at someone else's expense. You got that, Malcolm?"

Malcolm had startled slightly when Trip banged his fist, by the time Commander Tucker was finished with his declaration, Lieutenant Reed was as close to standing at attention as one could be while sitting down. Bracing himself for another outburst, the lieutenant replied, "Respectfully, Commander, I must tell you that I don't think I'll be able to honor that request."

"Damn it, Malcolm…"  
"Please!" Malcolm interrupted, something Lieutenant Reed would never do, but at the moment he was having a hard time knowing who he should be. "I think, for the moment, sir, that we should be as formal as possible because what I need to say to you has nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with duty and responsibility and necessity."

"What the hell are you talkin' about, Malcolm?"

Lieutenant Reed met Trip's troubled blue eyes with an iron-grey stare.

"Permission to speak freely, Commander?"

Disappointed that he thought he'd been talking with a friend, only to find out it was a bristly British armory officer, Trip shrugged. "Go ahead, _Lieutenant._ "He'd deliberately made the rank sound like something distasteful. He'd needed a friend, and Malcolm had just bailed on him. He wanted to hurt him.

Malcolm swallowed hard. He didn't want to hurt Trip, but Lieutenant Reed needed to make sure Commander Tucker understood what was going on around him.

"The captain did not consult me when he made the decision to have Sim created to save you," Lieutenant Reed began, "but you should know, Commander Tucker, that if he had, I would have advised him to do it."

"Malcolm!" Trip gasped, hurt deeply by the bald statement.

The lieutenant steeled himself for worse, because worse was yet to come.

"He did not consult me when it was discovered that the surgery to save your life would mean Sim's death," he continued. "If he had…" Malcolm paused to swallow hard and get a grip on himself, because, for as little time as he had known him, Sim had been a friend. "If he had, I would have advised him to do it anyway, by any means necessary."

Trip stood up, looming over Malcolm, spoiling for a fight.

"Are you tellin' me you'd have advised him to _murder_ someone just to save _me_?"

"I'd have advised him to save our chief engineer, sir!" Lieutenant Reed replied, standing to face him.

"But _why_?" Trip wailed, almost in anguish. "I'm not that important! Hess is a perfectly competent, fully qualified engineer. With a little more experience, Kelly an' Rostov will be capable. Why did he need _me_ so damned bad he had to _kill_ somebody?"

Either he hadn't noticed the tears that had started to fall, or he didn't care. He made no effort to wipe them away.

"He wasn't saving _you_ , Trip," Malcolm choked out, barely able to maintain his composure in front of his hurting friend. "He was saving us _all_. You, me, him, the crew, the ship, the mission…hopefully Earth, by saving the _one man_ who could give us any hope at all."

It surprised Malcolm a little, how much he missed Sim and how deeply he hurt over the loss of someone he'd technically only known for a few days, but he couldn't deny how grateful he was to have Trip back, and Commander Tucker. When Trip's shoulders slumped and he slouched back into his seat, Malcolm sat back down across from him.

"Perfectly competent and fully qualified just aren't good enough, Commander," the lieutenant tried to explain. "Not out here. _You_ know what we're up against. The stakes are too high to risk failing, and we can't succeed without you. The captain did what was necessary to keep you alive, and he'll do so again, as will I, and, I think, just about any member of this crew. Because you _are_ that important to this mission, sir."

"Bullshit!" Trip snuffled, wiping the back of his sleeve across his eyes.

"No, it's not," Malcolm insisted gently. "Like it or not…Trip, you _are_ special. You're as much a genius with the engines as Hoshi is with languages. _Nobody_ can do what you do as efficiently and as well as you do it. You re-wrote the bloody _laws of physics_ in _eight weeks_! If Hess or Rostov had that capability, they'd have been helping you! Bloody hell, man, even T'Pol was out of her depth on that one!

"Don't you see, Commander?" he gentled his tone. "Everybody thinks it's up to the captain to save the world, but ultimately, it all depends on _you_ getting us there in time to _do_ something. And you're just going to have to accept that people _will_ die for you, if it becomes necessary. It won't matter if they love you, hate you, or feel indifferent toward you, they'll do it because this mission _must_ succeed, and until we find that bloody weapon, you're the _one man_ we cannot be without."

"Stop it!" Trip shouted, closing his eyes and putting his hands over his ears. "Just stop! It's too much," he sobbed. "It's too much! First Lizzie, then your man, Fuller, now Sim, not to mention the other seven million who died in the attack, an' the billions just waitin' an' holdin' their breath!" When he finally realized Malcom was no longer talking, Trip lowered his hands to the table and looked at his friend. Oblivious to the tears on his face, he said, "I'm not man enough to answer to all those people, Mal."

"You don't have to be," Malcolm reassured him, reaching across the table to squeeze his arm. "All you have to do is keep this ship going," he said soothingly. "That's your job, and you've been doing it brilliantly for over two years already. Everything else is someone else's problem. Your job is to keep us moving. That's all. You just get us there, and we'll do the rest."

"An' if I fail?"

"Then it can't be done," Malcolm said with far more indifference than he actually felt. "I told you, nobody can do what you do. If you can't get us there, nobody can, and that's not your fault. There are just times when, no matter what we do, it's not enough."

"Even the takin' of an innocent life?" Trip asked, thinking again of Sim. "I didn't think it would _ever_ be ok to kill an innocent, no matter _what_ was at stake. The fact that Jon found a way to rationalize it for _me…_ "

"Not for you," Malcolm interrupted gently.

"All right, have it your way, _for the goddamn mission_!" he said with real venom. "Complete the mission, no matter what the cost? I know that's what I thought I wanted, but killin' someone who wasn't even born when this all started, just for the mission? That's not ok for me."

"It's not ok for any of us!" Malcolm replied with feeling. "It was a terrible thing the captain did, but it was a necessary evil. Evil is, at times, necessary, even for good men. Being necessary makes it no less evil, and being good is no protection from the harm it does a man. So don't think for a minute that it didn't cost the captain something to save his engineer! By the time this is over, the cost might be too high for him, for you, for all of us, but if we aren't willing to make that sacrifice, how much greater will the cost be when that weapon reaches Earth?

"Tell me, what do you think it has cost the captain, will cost him, to have used Sim to save you? A few sleepless nights, some awkwardness with Phlox, the loss of his best friend, even though you're alive and breathing and angry with him, some guilt and shame over what he did to Sim?"

Trip thought about it a moment and nodded. "I guess that about covers it. Why?"

Malcolm gave him a bewildered look, and blurted out, "Because you haven't even scratched the bloody surface, Trip!"

Trip recoiled at that, until he realized that, while Malcolm was upset, he wasn't upset _at_ _him._ Then he just sat there and listened, because Malcolm had listened to him and it seemed the right thing to do.

Leaning forward as if to drive home his point, Malcolm said, "Has it occurred to you that every time the captain looks at you, he's just happy to see his best friend alive? Then, the moment he feels happy about that, he feels guilty for what it cost to _keep_ you alive. Then he feels ashamed to feel guilty because you're his best friend and he should be happy just to see you alive."

Taking a deep breath, now, Malcolm sat up, straight and proper, and Lieutenant Reed said, "I _know_ that's how the captain feels, Commander, because you're my best friend, too, and Sim was my friend, for completely different reasons, and that's how _I_ feel. I can only imagine it's worse for the captain, because he is the one who had to make the decisions, and I suppose he must have asked himself at some point if he would have done the same thing if our chief engineer had been _anybody_ but you."

He stopped to steady his breathing and swallowed hard before he continued.

"Now, I am sorry that there is so much pressure on you, and I am sorry you have to live with this terrible thing that was done to save your life. I'm sorry you have to live with memories in your head that belong to the man who died to save you. But I cannot, I _will_ not, honor your request to just let you _bloody die_ next time! Not until we've finished this mission. If that means, at some point, that I have to die to save you, I will do so because it is necessary. I will do it gladly because you are my friend. If that means losing your friendship, then I am sorry for that, too, but whatever happens, Trip, I want you to know that I will _always_ be your friend."

Trip sat there staring at him, speechless, his lower lip sticking out in a thoughtful pout, as Malcolm found himself fighting for composure. In the silence that followed what was perhaps one of the longest and most impassioned speeches of his life, the normally self-possessed Brit sniffled. Then he dabbed his eyes with the back of his hand and chuckled a bit breathlessly. "I-I apologize, Commander, I don't…I came here to help you, not unload on you. I'm not quite sure what came over me just then."

Tucker stood abruptly, and gave him a friendly swat on the arm. "'It's alright, Mal, I'm pretty sure I know what it was, an' we're off duty, damn it, so call me Trip."

Malcolm nodded, sniffling again.

Looking down at his friend, Trip said, "Y'know, when I say Sim regarded you as his best friend, what I mean is, he loved you like a brother." When Malcolm gave him a faint smile, he added softly, "An' for completely different reasons than I do."

Malcolm gasped softly and his eyes went wide. "T-Trip, I…"

"Relax, Mal, you don't have to answer to that," Trip assured him. "I know it's not easy for you to say things like that. I just…felt like I ought to tell you, right then." Then he gave Malcolm a small grin. "Besides, I think you already said it about six different ways tonight."

Malcolm pressed his lips together and smiled, acknowledging the sentiment that had been behind his little lecture.

Trip gave him another light swat on the shoulder. "You stay right there for a minute."

As Trip walked away behind him, Malcolm pulled a white cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and quietly blew his nose. Then he turned his attention to stirring the cold dregs of his tea, just for something to do. As he watched the swirling liquid, he couldn't help but hear Trip comm the captain. He tried not to eavesdrop, but the mess hall was so bloody quiet, and surely, Trip would have gone elsewhere if he wanted his conversation to be private.

"I think we're gonna be ok, Jon…"

The captain's voice was quieter, but Malcolm could guess from Trip's replies what he must have said.

"Yeah, I'm still pissed, but not at you…No, not at Phlox, either…Well, just that shit happens, Jon!…None of your choices would have been any more or less right than what you did…Yeah, well, a very wise friend of ours just got through remindin' me that evil is sometimes necessary, even for good men like you…Look, I don't feel right discussin' this over the comm, so you just get some sleep, an' we'll talk about it more tomorrow. In the meantime, I think all you need to know is that, no matter what the hell happens to us out here, I am, an' will _always_ be, your friend…Yes, sir, Cap'n, sir!...G'night, Jon."

Malcolm smiled self-consciously and felt himself blush. He was immensely flattered to hear Trip quoting him to the captain. He stirred his cold tea a little more as he heard Trip rummaging around in the cabinets, then laughed when a tray full of sugar in various forms was placed before him. There was another cup of tea for him, a tall, cold glass of milk for Trip, a slice of pecan pie, a slice of key lime pie, and a beautifully layered pineapple trifle in a piña colada glass.

"Are you looking to lift our spirits with a dessert buffet or put us into sugar comas?" he teased.

"Well, the one'll make us feel better, the other'll help us sleep," Trip said, pulling a chair around beside Malcolm's. When he sat down, they were shoulder to shoulder. As he pulled two dessert forks and two long-handled spoons for the trifle from the breast pocket of his uniform, he added, "Either way, it'll be a good thing."

Malcolm bit his lip, feeling positively naughty for the way they were about to indulge, and he smiled to see his friend acting more like himself than he had since he came out of surgery. Then he accepted the fork and spoon Trip offered him. Malcolm went immediately for the trifle. Trip hesitated, then took just a sliver off the tip of the key lime pie.

When he caught Malcolm watching him with a speculative look, he shrugged and said, "Y'know, you may be no Jonathan Archer, my friend, but he's no Malcolm Reed, either."

Malcolm blushed and grinned, then reached out with his fork and took a bite of the pecan pie.

 _ **The End**_

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